


Cupid's Headland

by salemslot



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Angst, Drinking, Drug Use, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fictional Town, Gangs, Gore, Greaser Mickey, Greasers, Horror Elements, Illegal Activities, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Jock Ian, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Slurs, Supernatural Elements, Transphobia, Violence, implied statutory and underage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 18:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16124366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salemslot/pseuds/salemslot
Summary: Arch Cape was a small town populated with forty-three hundred people in the year 1957. It's located in the middle of two lakes that surrounded the area in the shape of a bow, hence the location being infamously dubbed "Cupid's Headland"—despite being miles from an actual ocean.Amongst the town was Ian Gallagher—a young man with mixed ambition who may have more than one congenital disorder passed down from his late mother, one severely misunderstood and the other a curse. Another, Mickey Milkovich—a grease monkey who fought in graveyards for cash and who was unabashedly proud to be who he was as much as he was terrified of losing the life he'd made for himself.These two men and their eclectic group of friends figure out what it means to be alive after the loss of a young boy in a haunting, unsolved murder that took place right in the bowstring of their insignificant town.





	Cupid's Headland

**Author's Note:**

  * For [horror_business](https://archiveofourown.org/users/horror_business/gifts).



> 1) Arch Cape is a fictional town that is very northeast or northwest-ish in its aesthetic... I'm obviously inspired by Stephen King. Fuck Chicago that's not where they're kicking it.  
> 2) this isn't a bloody horror and although there will be horror and supernatural type elements it's not the main focus. That being said there is some nasty, tragic imagery because sadly! someone was murdered! There are a lot of trigger warnings. I'll add more if needed but so far the ones up there are all I got. I'll remind people of them before every chapter.  
> 3) BIG ONE! This takes place in the 50s and I'm not 80 years old so I can't 100% accurately convey living in 1957. I do research as well as give educated guesses on what sounds good to me lmAO but I mean, good enough that you won't question that it fits in the time period (I hope.) So some slang, trends, media, ways of life, politics around racism/homophobia/sexism, may not be totally accurate but I'm working hard on making everything sound reasonable enough that it flows well.  
> 4) anything that sounds weirdly fetishy of Ian to say or just... ANYONE ever sounds like a dumbass it's all their character and who they are, no one can be politically correct in this its impossible.  
> 5) povs are gonna be all over the place but lets start with our dear Ian Gallagher  
> 6) HAPPY FUCKING LATE BIRTHDAY TO KERRI WHO IS THE REASON I STARTED THIS FIC! THIS IS FOR HER AND MONKEY! LOVE U SO MUCH!  
> (monkey drew me art of not only [greaser mickey](http://eightmonkeys.tumblr.com/post/178092797249/joshie-asks-i-deliver) but [50s ian and mickey dancing](http://eightmonkeys.tumblr.com/post/177435628554/tequila-plays-in-the-background) for this fic and side side side note: dancing and music are important to this fic so this art is vital for you to see)
> 
> triggers for this chapter: slurs, bloody imagery, drug use and suicide mention, sexual abuse mention
> 
> and finally, i edited this but of course i've missed things so over time i'll edit more post posting, excuse my mistakes

 

May 1957 - Ian

 

Ian Gallagher gripped his Hillerich & Bradsby bat in his hand and wedged it underneath the soaked armpit of his practice jersey. He’d been standing and waiting near the pitchers mound long enough for the back of his neck to prickle. It flared up his dry first-degree burn from last practice, stung under his salty sweat that was collecting on his collar. The stormy breeze was doing nothing to relieve him when it became so humid that gnats build nests in his clothes.

There were ten yards of dust clearing at home plate, a shimmering, brown cloud swarming Rogie Toonker and their fill-in ump, Tony Badger. They were hacking the ball field dirt from their lungs and swatting it from their eyes after Carter Calhoun ripped a trail halfway from third with the heel of his shoe, nearly splitting the earth in two.

Ian rolled his eyes and squeezed the bill of his cap with his hand that was wet from being in his batting glove all afternoon. Rogie gagged and swore, swatted Calhoun’s ass with his own hat and theatrically pressed his cleat between his butt cheeks, launching him into the dugout with a hard kick.

“This is ball practice you shit-eating, Eddie-Mathews’-mother-fucking sonuvabitch! Go out for the minors and pull that bullshit, superstar! We’re supposed to be batting! You feel like running, go jog all the way home. Fuckin’ prick, piece uh… ” Rogie’s words tightened up in his throat and barely passed his teeth as he patted his jersey and shorts, ruffled his cornsilk quaff and sneezed when it exploded with dust.

Ian impatiently switched his weight between his feet, toed a grass root with his ked, glared past the white light illuminating the smooth, unbroken gray, sitting swollen with rain above them, stretching beyond the small college and the peaks of the most distant pine trees Ian could make out that framed this section of town.

Carter was in hysterics, clutching his sides, swaying on the metal bleacher and watching Rogie sneeze himself to his knees on home plate while Tony hoisted him with his meaty fist.

His raucous laughing came out his throat like an _AHOOGA!_  Horn. It drew attention from other team members testing their arms with passes in the outfield. Ian shared a pitiful look with a few of them and scratched at his neck burn. He was beyond irritated with the time wasted in today’s practice but mostly marinating in the sour mood he’d been in for days.

Ian smiled tight and sarcastic at the jeers he was getting from the bastards that didn’t have to run with the team’s  _star batters_  at practice before big games. He let his eyes pull toward his best friend, Oz Baxter, like a magnet to a fucking fridge.

Oz was with Coach Gladwin, most likely skimming defensive plays coach hadn’t shut up about for the past month after he finally figured out how to make the team’s formulaic bond function like a well-oiled machine—weeks before their last game, which is the prime reasoning behind the eight consecutive losses in their subpar season. Oz was a smart guy, might have been captain if life was gracious and he was comfortable being under the spotlight during games with skin as dark as his. Oz was a genius though, he was. Goddamn brilliant. He played ball like it was poetry and he’d been writing about daisies catching sunlight all his damn life, but the words were his impressive agility, the paper was the diamond, ideas were his fastballs and stacked up strikeouts. He was the exact talent the Cape Angel’s so desperately craved and the perfect addition after he moved north to Arch Cape last fall and tried out. It was a shame he joined on the shittiest season their community school has ever been forced to experience in the history of this ancient, brick-walled shit establishment.

Ian grinned at Oz and tucked his chin down to block his face from ill-tempered Rogie’s eyesight in case he decided to look over, bolt toward Ian like a little fireball from hell and tear his nuts off, use them to teethe on. He was never intimidated by Ian’s broader build and the half foot he had on him, and while it was admirable, the man is an itty bitty compact satan and Ian wanted nothing more than to hang him up from the fence by his underwear and leave him there to fry.

Oz flashed a killer smile back, his perfect pearly teeth catching beams from the nonexistent sunlight. Sweat gave his hairline a warm gold that followed the line of his nose the dip above his lips. “Soopastwaw!” he mouthed theatrically, pulling his thick brows together the way Rogie always did when his Bronx accent was heavy and vicious, dripping off ‘superstar’—his general name for everyone that didn’t play as shitty as him.

Ian bared his teeth and sneered at his friend before another voice cutting through the commotion of laughter made him turn around. “Will you fucking pinheads put a sock in your pie holes and let Ian pitch already?!” Nick Childs, Ian’s technical, honorary best friend since third grade commanded from his spot criss-cross in the dugouts lacing his shoes.

Ian smiled with false sweetness at Nick, who gazed up through his stray pieces of chestnut colored hair that made all the girls wacky and moonstruck, and blinked with dough eyes that had the lady professors wet and ready, craving a slice of that second year hunk that was high on the social ladder, son of a bank-chain owner in the Cape, slumming it with his ball chumps and turning piss into gold.

Nick smirked over the wad of gum in his lip and flipped Ian off, reading his sarcastic damsel complex like it was written in big jazzy letters on his jersey: ‘STAND UP FOR ME NICK CHILDS, YOU PANTIE-DROPPING STUD!’

Rogie held Tony’s chest protector and let his last few quiet sneezes go over Tony’s shoulder so he didn’t get a singled-out ass reaming from Nick. His caution was evident.

Nick hoisted himself up on the bench, his way of making a definitive statement with his knees spread and elbows on his thighs. Clowning around, at least the sort of clowning that completely halted practice and didn’t coexist peacefully with what they’re there on a Thursday morning to do, was over.

Carter’s laugh was clipped off like their parent’s Union Trade radio show when Nick jabbed a knuckle into his ribs. “Huh…Ow! Cool off, dick cheese!” he hissed and pressed a hand on the wounded area.

“Ice it,” Nick warned, jaw set and eyes hard. Ian huffed from his spot on the pitcher’s mound and shot another swift look at Oz, who returned his sentiment with a twin wary expression.

Carter fell silent like a child shoved in the punishment corner and sheepishly rubbed his ribs. Nick sauntered over to the chain link, hung off of it cool and commanding like a jungle cat sprawled over a warm rock with his paws hanging over the edge.

Rogie fervently wiped his nose and Tony rubbed the snot from his jersey with his beefy hand without much interest. Ian sighed and shook his head, threw his arm out as if to ask what the earth-shifting silence between acts was for, the holding of the breath as the entourage waited for direction from Nick Childs, shot caller, the big can o’ beans, a god in Rawlings running shorts.

It was infuriating. Ian was running out of patience with this whole dynamic their group had gained, especially after last year when not only them but the entire Cape changed its tune prior to the accident at Pilcastle Lake.

Despite their tension and precarious bond, Nick still found time to be Nick, cheeky and in love with riling Ian up more than he loved spending quality time with his own chick sometimes, probably. He got off on it more. Ian figured that was just who his best friend was, a desperate, doomed fool for attention.

A sly smile pulled the side of Nick’s mouth like his cheek was caught in a hook. He gave a single nod toward the glove and water canister by the gate, hidden in tall weeds that were bombarded with small flying dots. “Toss a few, Mr. G,” he called across the field.

Ian shifted his jaw and smiled tightly, but with little pique and more cut and dry sarcasm that fueled Nick. “Sir yes sir,” Ian said, sounding genial over Nick’s whistles. Ian pulled his bat from his arm and rubbed the sweat from the wood before he meandered toward the gate.

“Why are we letting this bozo pitch again?” Rogie spoke through stuffed sinuses.

“S’bozo needs to take a little break from the slugger and practice his pitching arm. He’s coming close to writing songs about old Henrietta. Taking her out in his car and stopping the fun show before he hits a home run because the guy can’t undo a bra to save his fucking life.” Nick watched Ian through the fence impishly. Ian shook his water canister from a few gnats on the metal and flipped the cap for a quick drink, raising the middle finger at Nick without looking in his direction as his throat moved around the warm water.

“Her name is Harper,” Ian said after over Nick’s chuckle as he wiped his wet lips. “Name of my bat is Harper.” He flicked the wood where her name was carved with a pin. Nick threw his hands in the air theatrically and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Harper, Henrietta, Haley-Sue, doesn’t matter. Her hands are stiff and she’s got no poontang, yet you care about that old piece of scrap wood more than us.” The boys erupted in a collective round of doofy laughter and sneered at Ian.

Ian nodded humorlessly and went to prop the bat on the fence and snatch his glove from the ground.

“Aye whoa whoa!” Rogie cried through breathless hiccups and outstretched his hands in front of him like Ian was wielding a gun. Ian shoved his hand in the sweaty mitt and glanced up absently. “That ain’t no way to treat your girl!” he hollered, astonished. “Getting her all scuffed up and making her sit with the flies, Gallagher? Lemme hold her! She doesn’t need to be sitting all on her lonesome out there!”

Ian snorted and waltzed toward the mound, fanning his wet forehead with the brown leather. “Fat fucking chance, Roger,” he answered. “I’d sooner get on my knees for you.” He tightened the laces so it squeezed his hand properly and called for a ball. Tony grabbed a stray and tossed it over. Ian caught it square in the middle of the thick skin and dirt exploded from the old thing and floated into the white light, then vanished.

“Promise?” Rogie cackled. Ian blinked away from the particles that he could no longer see. They disappeared into some crack in the sky, it almost seemed.

When he looked on, Nick was watching him curiously with a fading smile, then glanced away altogether and rubbed his nose on his shoulder before releasing the gate to fold his arms. He scanned the ground for old chewing gum.

Ian blinked away. “If it means you’ll leave Harper where she lies. The farther from your tiny fucking bastard hands the better, huh?” He glowered and then tossed an easy smile before it became apparent he really wanted to wring the kid's reptile neck for even joking about messing with his bat.

The bat has brought him miraculous, undeserved luck since he was seven years old. It was found in the town junkyard (where his brother Lip now worked) between an old box of baseball cards and moth worn hat dating back to before the war. Harper was a miracle find. He learned ball with that bat as his right hand woman, brought him to high school varsity level stats when he was only a grade seven who could barely walk on two feet, but he sure could run, and swing, and catch, and dive, all with the field as his grand stage for performance. Harper had become another limb by then, he slept beside her, held her on his lap at the dinner table.

Her grip was electrifying, mystical, surged him with a kind of illicit skill he never dreamed of having back when he listened to the Boston games on the radio with Lip. They dabbed their pink wet shoulders with old newspaper and raised the antenna until the end touched a cloud on hot summer evenings back in ‘47 on the Gallagher porch.

“Fine, pally. I’ll take you up on that if you promise not to moan ol’ Harper’s name when you’re supposed to be focusing on me and how sweet I taste.” Tony and Carter let out a simultaneous bellow that scared the stray birds into the trees. Nick was silent, not that Ian found what Nicholas Childs did or didn’t laugh out nowadays odd in particular, what with everything that followed him like a big, shadowy ghoul with its claws caught in the skin of his back.

The guy could laugh until his face melted when Alfred Hitchcock was on. He could be stone-faced and glass-eyed during a regular comedy talk show. Everyone would keep their thoughts locked away but their heads were always transparent, minds easy to read. They’d think about how tragic it was that the young and handsome suffered the deepest and had to stifle their demons when they were the least deserving of such macabre, horrific luck.

Ian was no Nick Childs, and he never would be. He knew he’d always been his redheaded, less beautiful, less fortunate, unlucky, cute in a lost-wanderer-with-bleak-roots sort of fashion. Even so, he knew more people paid attention to him and showered him well-meaning pity when something rough happened within the Gallagher family than if something happened to someone like Piggy Q. Walters from his high school gym class.

Piggy’s mother killed herself with opioids after his father ran away with Piggy’s obesity specialist out in Ula’ree, forty miles north. No one cared because he had breasts like an adult woman and boils on his neck, thought to be child abuse from a ghastly old crazy mother that overfed him and a flighty gambling-addicted father that cheated on his wife, and that was that. Ian and Nick were worth the attention because, what, they were athletic and charming. Piggy was not.

Ian wondered where Piggy, or, Peter Walters—as he should refer to him now that he wasn’t a gum bubble blowing, five-foot, whino—was now, if he moved to a place where people care about others because they’re nice people, or if he hadn’t discovered such a town yet. Maybe if Ian found a place like that himself he’d take Nick with and show him if he didn’t want so much attention, all he had to do was be an asshole, and having good looks, talent, and coming from old money wouldn’t mean spit. He’d be left alone.

“Where’s the handsome Adonis pitcher with the bum arm I’ve been hearin’ so much about?” Rogie twirled the bat around his arm and caught it mid-air before stepping up to the plate, toes on his filthy shoes pointing west. “Gonna pitch a few or what, superstar? We got twenty minutes.”

“Give him a second will’ya?” Nick griped.

Tony dutifully crouched behind the tiny but mighty statured man with his glove out and his facemask down in place, but not without giving Rogie a few hearty ass taps on the meat of what little ass the kid had. “Fucking dunce!” Rogie scolded. Tony spat between the plastic and flashed his teeth.

“Batter up!” Ian yelled. He took the hard cowhide in the palm of his hot right hand, rotated it with his fingertips and tossed it up a few times, watching it blend with the shroud of gray hanging thick above. Rogie was growing impatient.

Ian caught the ball with a soft smack for the fifth time and immediately lifted his left leg, drew his arm back and sent the ball soaring in as close to a straight line as he could get. He saw that he put more than enough power behind it when it resulted in Rogie’s body bowing forward to avoid getting struck in the arm. It made an audible  _whizz_  before slamming into the gate.

“ _What_  in the high hell, you fucking moron?!” Rogie clutched his cap and looked between his unscathed body and the ball that was rolling toward Tony, surprisingly still laced and intact, not emanating any smoke. “You expect anyone to swing when you’re packing that much heat on the other goddamn side of the plate? Bat’s over here, candy ass! Or is our world’s eastward fucking orbit keeping you from pitching it north!?” He waved his slugger around his right side and Nick laughed his fucking ass off from the dugouts, whistling and rattling the fence.

“Gallagher can pitch, Toonker, he just hates your guts in case you’re too stupid to read the signs, you wet rag. Let him take out a tooth first so he’ll feel better.”

Ian huffed and his face broke out into a weak grin but he was internally cringing over his shitty aim. He was hoping he’d been improving with weekend lessons from Oz at Arnrath park, although, he couldn’t deny that he was as pleased as a peach that the ball nearly blew right through the snot’s head, leaving gaping holes where his ears were.

Carter and Nick were howling over Rogie’s seemingly unending misfortune that stuck to him like cotton on sweat. Rogie threatened to rip their heads straight off their necks with the fat of his bat.

Tony pitched Ian the ball. Again, it landed easy and smooth in the middle of his glove like a force guided it there, leaving a satisfying thump. Ian had the coordination and strength to pitch, more so than most of the Angel’s regular pitchers, even.

Practice and the strike of Harper’s luck couldn’t gift him with was precise aim and spatial awareness. It was more difficult to learn than a batter’s aim when he had his H&B bat under the mesh glove and his eyes were scoping the entire expanse of the field instead of hot spots he had to hit to guarantee a swing and miss.

Ian managed to pitch the ball decently but with far less power behind than he knew he could offer. Rogie swung and hit, and occasionally didn’t swing at all when he saw that Ian was delivering an alright pitch. He just wanted to be the sweetest candy ass with his tongue pressing along his sugar-coated cheek. Ian threw him white-hot glares better than he threw baseballs.

It was apparent that Ian wasn’t going to reach an all-star level in a single practice and Rogie was the worst batter partner to help loosen his stiff pitching through loving encouragement. Ian was unhinged by the time the knot on his forehead pulsated after twenty unsuccessful pitches. He ripped his glove off his hand and chucked it like a spiteful toddler straight at Rogie’s nads, nailing him square between the legs and forcing his knees to give a little before he caught himself and swore harshly between his teeth and nursed himself.

Coach clapped his hands and hardly used his whistle that hung rusty around his gooseneck over a yellow sweat that clung to his sweater. Ian didn’t hear his hands as much as he heard bird wings rippling as they took flight after being startled.

He watched the birds black silhouettes move with coordinated ease and fade into pollution past the peak of the college while the distant echo of coach speaking filled the space around him. Ian blinked and slowly turned around, soles of his shoes shifting through the dirt while the other batting boys passed him from behind to get a better ear. Rogie smacked him upside the head a few seconds later because he had to walk a little slower with his aching ballsac.

He then felt a large hand settle on the wettest part of his back. It fisted Ian’s shirt fabric and pulled him off the mound so that he clumsily stumbled into the side of a warm body. He already knew it was Nick. He accepted the strong arm stretched over his shoulders and the fingers rubbing his head over his cap without so much as a sideways glance. Ian pressed into Nick’s touch and folded his arms across his chest.

The coach droned about the game in three days and his and Oz’s discussion about the opposing team, what has made the Angel’s successful in the past playing a school that had a phenomenal season, and showing him sloppy scribbles of the field layout on the back of an old sporting equipment past-due rental notice.

Ian smiled, bemused at Oz who was struggling to withhold the mirth touching the corners of his mouth as he stood beside coach with his hands on his hips. He tried to look like a stern, earnest, an unofficial second-in-command.

Oz shook his head and pressed his mouth into a thin line while large brown eyes shouted at Ian to look the other fucking way or he’d regret it later.

Nick pulled Ian closer to his body then and made his head move under the control of his palm, then turned them a little out of Oz’s eyesight. Ian’s smile faded as he rubbed his eyebrow and looked at the boy. “You’re doin’ better. You know that?” Nick mumbled gently and offered a different sort of smile that was usually only reserved for Ian and his mother, maybe a girl when he felt sorry enough that he was dumping her days before her birthday. He wasn’t top of the food chain, hungry predator, slick and smooth Nick. He was as he was in Ian’s earliest memories of him, sticky with creamsicle wandering along the edge of waterholes in March when the surface still held chunks of ice. He was only the old Nick, clumsy, readable and open, still wet the bed.

Ian was sure that Nick could be referring to two separate things when saying “you’re doing better” and at the last second before he replied, Ian decided he was talking about his pitching improving and hoped he wasn’t moronic enough to mention an unmentionable while they were in earshot of their teammates. “I don’t think so,” he answered cautiously, “but Oz has been taking me to Arnrath to practice and I think he can really help me, y’know? In the long run. He’s great.”

Nick made a face that could have been interrupted as sour if it didn’t vanish as quickly as it appeared.

Ian knew better than to pass it off as him reacting to sweat pouring down his face or a sharp bit of dead grass caught in his shoe but he did, because Nick got a lot of passes from him. “He really is. I’m glad he joined us when he did,” he sighed, and he sounded like he meant it, probably because he did.

They were beat, sorry-ass losers all through winter training when they scrimmaged around the county, now they were winning at least fifty percent of their games and that was a fucking miracle on the Arch Cape soil.

“Regal's Robins are gonna serve our asses for supper, though, Oz or not. They got Marty Lewski pitching since he transferred from Ula’ree and we’re not… fucking  _ready_  for pitchers like that,” he said, defeated, punching Ian’s shoulder blade. “I mean, you think we would be because we’ve been playing since November.” He raised his brows and sucked his teeth. “If Gladwin stopped lamenting over his divorce papers on the bleachers and listening to Gunsmoke on the fucking radio during practice we might get somewhere, but the guy is a wet sack of tears and inexperience. Fucking putz is nothing compared to Coach Winslow from back when my dad went here. Best team for a junior college in the whole fucking state and it’s because coach planned, and lead, and cast aside the shitzos on the bench.” He shoved him tiredly and took a couple lazy steps backward, stretched his arms behind his head.

Ian snickered and shook his head. “You really are an asshole.”

The big cat smile was back, sharp canines buried in his full lower lip almost threatening to break the skin. His deep smile folds compensated for the childlike baby fat in his cheeks, cheeks like his younger brothers.

_Ian thought of Nick’s younger brother’s vitality bleeding out his chubby cheeks and then he thought about blood and then he thought about nothing at all._

“Write a book about it, baby.” Nick licked over his front teeth and laughed when Ian blinked dazedly and slapped his chest.

Nick grabbed his hand and pulled Ian back in tight by his arm until their shoulders knocked clumsily. He laughed softly in Ian’s ear, tobacco breath blowing as kindly as the wind that had picked up to break apart the sticky air. Nick was calling him a dunderhead while pulling his head down by the bill of his hat and jerking it left and right. Ian’s hand brushed between Nick’s legs by mistake during all the movement.

His breath seized up softly, strangled so that attention wasn’t called to it. By Nick’s ceaseless laughing, it seemed that the boy hadn’t noticed in the slightest.

The knuckles that touched Nick prickled like they were numb and he held them close to his body. He lamely pulled away from him and chuckled stiffly at the heavy arm still resting along his shoulder blades keeping him prisoner. He couldn’t breathe properly, and all of the sudden Ian was met with a horrible feeling and couldn’t stand to be this close to him.

He peeled himself off politely and was careful not to show panic through jerky, awkward movements. He pushed him for added nonchalance even though the whole thing came off a little too stiff and intentional. He took a couple casual steps back as his laughter died down into a thin wisp of fear and at that point, it was as meaningless a sound as the leaves under their feet. It was lost in the cracks of his teeth. He straightened up his clothes, adjusted his hat, had trouble making eye contact but was sure to check if anyone had seen his slip.

No one had, and most importantly, Oz, Rogie, and Carter had been preoccupied with skull-numbing boredom and slapping mosquitoes off their necks while coach’s jolly voice that sounded like a goofy television show host beat on like white noise.

Nick’s handsome giggles were reduced to small breaths. He looked as blissful as Ian had seen him in a while, high off the dirt orbiting around their heads, surely.

Then, in the briefest moment, he looked at Ian with such subtle scrutiny that Ian would not have noticed if he wasn’t already paranoid and searching his features for telling signs that he knew about him, had felt his fingers like he felt them the last time they were in a compromising position, and the time before that/ He knew all along.

Then, Nick’s look went away. His smile returned, genuine and full, poster boy perfect face aside from his left eye that squinted more than his right. The warmth throughout him bloomed like a flower and it was infectious enough to travel the space between them and make Ian return the expression, a more nervous version, but Nick didn’t notice or he didn’t want to raise a question. He was usually more attentive to Ian now then he was

_Bloody grass and small shoes slung on up on a rock. The laces were pink._

last year, but not today.

“Will you come over tonight?” Nick asked, hopeful and uncharacteristically quiet as he raked his long fingers through his loose, neat mop of hair, pulling stray strands to the back of his skull and giving him a careless boyish look that he knew drove the doll’s insane. Ian couldn’t help but think about long-haired mud-stained Nicholas playing with his Warhawk P-40 model plane while Ian laid dead center in his massive, lush front lawn, his dad screaming from a third floor bedroom.

“I uh, I got to leave with Oz after.”

Nick’s smile tightened,eyebrow shot up. He glanced off onto the main road to the left of them and hummed. “Osborn, huh?” He tongued his cheek. “You fellas gonna pitch some more or what?”

“Nah… Work at the diner.”

A humorless laugh broke through Nick’s mouth. “Seriously? You’re there every day, guy. They’re working you through the goddamn wringer, huh?”

“I ask for more days because I could sure use the cash so, it’s no big deal,” Ian shrugged.

He was a little down about spending most of his free time between school, errands, ball, and work, but it was an obligation he knew he had to cycle though since he was old enough to work for a quick buck around the neighborhood.

Fiona had clerical work for the town newspaper, Lip at the junkyard, Debs and Carl between the bowling alley and babysitting. Ian had the Sweet Eats diner on Juniper street and that’s where he worshiped, ate, and bled—for his family.

Nick frowned at Ian’s brushed off statement. “Well, w-what do you need? You know I can spot you, man,” he finished with an odd, out-of-tune laugh. “If it means you’ll get a day off to hang around sometime, I’ll buy your damn sister some panties so you don’t have to.”

Ian slugged Nick with his middle knuckle stuck out further than the rest to ensure a harsh, swollen bruise on his bicep. Nick hissed and laughed with his mouth in a pleased grimace and a hand over his wound. He called attention to them from nearby teammates who smacking on gum and throwing them looks. “Oh-ho-ho…  _fuck_. Haven’t hit me that hard since I pissed in your shoe at ball camp.” He cackled and winced when he poked the spot hard, repeatedly.

“She’s fifteen you fucking sleaze,” Ian bit, only half pissed and half exhausted with the bull his friend pulled to get a rise, even if it meant saturating his perversion for shock value, to get Ian’s chin out of line.

Nick shook his head giddily, face rosy and hair straying off in the humidity, a finger wiping his nose. “I wouldn’t dream of touching a red hair on that pretty girl’s head.” He was letting out huffy laughs but his voice was dead sincere. “She’s like my sister.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian relented as his large moody eyes strayed over the crowd of men, followed the movement of Oz’s lips.

“I was talking about Fiona, anyway. Thought that was clear,” he mumbled offhandedly and snickered when Ian stewed without bothering to give him the look that Nick so desperately wanted. “She’s like a mom though, so.” He scrunched his nose and tilted his head sideways, contemplating. “But that’s kind of hot, huh?”

He sucked his teeth and barked a cheeky laugh when Ian pushed him hard with his own shoulder and Nick pressed into him with the same amount of force until their thin white shoes were digging into the hard earth.

“Fucking slimeball.” Ian elbowed him in the sternum and beamed at Nick’s loud wheeze that officially halted the unremitting buzz from coach and grabbed his attention.

He tucked his whistle under his shirt as if it made him more official if they’d forgotten he was a lowly junior college coach. He peered from behind the fat head of Sawyer Mallaghan. His jowls were loose and his thin lips were in a sarcastic, curious ‘O’ shape “Trouble, gentlemen?”

Their laughter died in their throats and Nick rubbed his aching abdomen sheepishly. He cleared his throat and stood up straighter, knowing acting out was on a long list of things Gladwin would ring up his father for, regardless of the obvious fact that he was a twenty-one-year-old man. Nick mouthed off about Gladwin solely behind his back with confidence. It faded like a war paint under acetone when they spoke face to face because he was a complaint away from… Ian didn’t exactly know what, but he supposed he didn’t need to be aware of all the gritty details to understand the power Burgess Childs had over much of the state, let alone his eldest son. “No coach,” Nick and Ian said.

Gladwin smiled, thin and cracked, mildly disturbed. “Well, that’s just fine, then.” He nodded and situated his clipboard in his hands. “Plan your lover’s outings in around ten minutes after we’ve wrapped up, eh?”

The men laughed. Oz only smiled kindly at Ian and Ian struggled to smile back as Nick licked his middle finger, tucked it close to his body and shook it like he would jostle a gun in a holster.

“If I say I’ll give you a ten will you split and come over? We could go out or something instead. The shops.” Nick whispered moments later, hands slipped in shorts pockets.

Ian snorted and rubbed his eye, frustrated. “I hate the shops.”

“So no shops. Cupid’s Club,” Nick shrugged.

“Fuck off,” Ian sighed.

Nick grabbed his shoulder with exuberance. “I could get us in!”

“I don’t doubt that, guy.”

Nick flopped his hand on his thigh. “Then why are you bugging?” he groaned, probably keyed up over Ian’s constant rejection to go do something fun, but fun would get him in trouble, would make his control slip through the cracks of his fingers. Ian was only so stable these days.

He itched for a cigarette, patted his shorts like a stray would be hiding at the bottom of his pocket. “Club is full of a buncha filthy east side greasers, anyway.” Ian shook his head, looking disdained at his loose shoelaces.

Nick hummed, amused. “Could make it more fun. Maybe Gilbert “Stacks” will be there and we could double team that sweet doll of his in the romance section, huh?”

Ian suppressed a smile by sighing loud and abrupt. “We couldn’t get in. You’re sensationally hated around those parts, may I fucking remind you, dear?”

Nick laughed. “I got a pact with Socket. Big guy would let us both in and make sure no one fucking breathes towards us without chewing a mint first.”

“How much are you payin’ him?” Ian deadpanned.

Nick held a hand over his heart, fingers bunching the cotton. “Not a cent. Swear it.”

Ian snorted and crossed his arms, began shifting his weight between feet and trying to catch Oz’s eye, just for a second, just to keep him sane. “Not everyone can be bought, but some people are willing to exchange services,” Nick said matter-of-factly. It was obvious he had plenty to serve others with.

Ian eyed him through his peripheral. “I won’t be bought either,” he mumbled. “You don’t need to pay me to hang with you.”

“That’s not… “ He trailed off. He was resigned. “Shit, I don’t know, man. I hardly see you anymore.”

Ian’s heart panged. He was pulled back into fuzzy memories of watching airplane models sore ten feet above him through the column of sky between unruly treetops. He sounded boyish and wounded, unintentionally so, but Ian picked up on it easily because he tried to grab at small fragments of Nick that reminded Ian of he was in his purest, parts of him that hardly shown through his golden boy renown.

Ian was constantly battling himself over drawing closer because Nick needed Ian now more than ever and running from him, never looking back. Moments like these are when he regretted waiting to hear the gunshot in the air to send him sprinting.

Nick did need him. Nick had a large home with a mother who hosted book club meetings and slaved over the intricacies of her finger foods and decor. She could not handle how she felt knowing the one thing she had let grow dust (despite her fixation on cleanliness) was an extra chair at their family table.

Nick had a father who did not have violent tendencies but his ability to forget almost everything about his eldest aside from his interest in baseball was remarkable. It hurt almost as much as six rings in the cracks of his teeth would, especially when Nick was so much of a prop for a progeny more than an actual human being that his father called him by his younger brother’s name often.

Nick had looks, talent, moxie, and privilege but he did not have a good life—and he hated living it alone.

Ian couldn’t come over today, though. He had his own life balanced and he needed to keep a stable surface or he would be busy picking up the shards, then he would be of no use to Nick anyway. Nick knew that more than anyone.

“How about I come see you for free this weekend?” Ian asked. He was quieter than necessary.

“Sure.” Nick settled, not sounding completely convinced.

“No, no clubs or shops or picking up chicks, huh? We can just walk around, grab food.”

Nick smiled again. “We’ll do what you want, honest.”

“I  _will_  stop by.”

“Fine.” He looked at his feet and rode the wave of silence before it fizzled. “Saturday morning I’m gonna see if coach will let me and some of the guys go on a little excursion to visit Wesley’s field, run some plays at a bigger diamond, ya’ know? It’ll help us out boatloads if we’re stretched out. This shithole’s a fucking little league nightmare. Can feel my joints fusing from how cramped it is,” he said under his breath as he scanned the ratty grass. “Any time after noon. Or you could come along…” he trailed off, already knowing the answer.

“Liam’s got a cold,” Ian explained.“We gotta get him to the doctors this weekend when nobody’s got a shift to pull. Everything should be all clear after noon though,” he promised.

“Alright then.” Nick sighed. “Then it’s a date.”

Ian coughed into his elbow.

“You’re  _really_  doing great, Ian,” Nick said after a beat. Ian had a feeling he had been watching him press his clammy hand to his hot cheeks to get them to cool off for a time.

Ian smiled wanly. “It’s all thanks to Oz,” he assured.

“I mean… “ he tottered on his feet a little, like little Nick. Little Nick in his mom’s doorway as she organized her dolls on her mantle above her bed. She’d smile warmly at him with her lipstick-stained mouth and gave the boys approval to come in, so long as their shoes were off. They’d watch fireworks in July from his parent's window and hang out the sill because it was the best view they’d get second to the forbidden rooftop. Ian would focus so hard at the red and green explosions because he feared those dolls eyes staring over his shoulder with glazed expressions.

Nervous Nick, shifting on his feet. “I mean  _everything_ ,” he forced out. “You’re doing great.”

Ian’s stomach twisted. He fought a wince until his face was turned into his shoulder. There it was. He had gone five days without saying a single thing about it.

He knew Nick was only being kind, a good friend, maybe because he felt like he had been one of the worst this past year, but it didn’t mean Ian wasn’t irritated. It was a big cramp on his anxiety, small missteps while he was attempting to forget and move on, almost desperately, but of course, he couldn’t just tell everyone who care to shut their fucking yaps so he could heal in numbness, so he never said anything at all in response. This time was no exception.

“That’s a wrap, boys. Scoot on out, take your vitamins, wear contraception and I’ll see you all Sunday morn.” He waved at them like flies and turned toward Oz with no intention to wrap things up with the boy, not until he rattled on for ten more minutes or until his jowls melted in this heat.

Ian nodded at Nick only to acknowledge his statement. Nick bit his cheek and looked off and nodded as well. Their conversation was over.

Ian decided to walk over to Oz and play hero by plucking him out of his lecture. He mustered up a good friendly attitude as he approached the two men, a complete 180 from the mild misery he’d felt a moment ago. “Coach, hey! Oz and I should get going before my sister flips a lid. She’s making lunch and if we’re not all there to spend quality time we’ll be real sorry. Good as roadkill, really. Then our performance on Sunday might suffer, hate to say.” Oz nodded enthusiastically along with Ian’s lies.

Well, she  _was_  making lunch around this time, but she had little energy to keep track of who was there and who wasn’t. She slapped pickles and bologna on bread and wrapped them in plastic for anyone to grab when they swung through before she left for work.

She’d also had not done so much as spank Ian since he was five.

Coach looked at him wearily with eyes that could be mistaken for having some glint of wisdom when in reality it was the onset of glaucoma. “Can’t fight the wrath of an elder sister, I realize.” He stared, gave in. “Off with the two of you.” He whacked Ian’s chest with the clipboard and pushed his way past their large shoulders.

“Thank you, sir!” Ian held his hand up and coach slowed and turned to make one final statement for the day before he was off, doing what Nick had explained as his pre-weekend routine: stocking up on vegetable oil for the old skin stick, scouring the great beyond for academic articles about his ex-wife’s neurology success in the state of Massachusetts where she worked. Hopefully, she’d be wearing something saucy and shorter in the accompanying photo this week.

“Gallagher?”

“Yes Coach?”

“Are you aware of the vandalism on our Angel’s mural on the east wall of our locker room?”

Ian took a deep, defeated breath and slowly shook his head no. He hadn’t been to the locker rooms that morning. He showed up dressed. He hadn’t seen a damn thing, but he knew who the culprits were and he had vague ideas of what vulgar things had been painted up over their white wings. “No sir.”

“Second time this year.” Coach grabbed his board with both hands and tongued his cheek coolly as he squinted over the shrubbery by the gate. “I’d like for you to rally some men and use the leftover paint in the supply closest to spruce it up tomorrow.”

Ian blanched. “Me? I got—”

“Would you like to come in on the weekend?” Coach spoke over his objection.

—work. He had a fucking job. He had the morning slot the day after a night slot that he didn’t ask for but if he was five dollars short his family couldn’t swing their mortgage that month. He had to go. There was no way out of it.

“No sir,” he mumbled anyway.

“And as I recall you still have a few more community service hours you owe me, eh? Why not knock the rest out tomorrow. It’a be in your best interest.” He offered a faulty crooked smile and turned on his heel to saunter on down with the rest of the team who were gathering their things along a dead grass patch near the field exit.

Ian clenched his jaw and debated charging after him, demanding he shoved his tetanic whistle in the place his wife’s fingers no longer breached, but Oz’s hand fell on his shoulder before he could lift his foot off the ground. “Ease up, doc.”

Ian clenched his fist and beat it hard against his thigh before he spun around. He took a deep breath and unclenched underneath Oz’s hand. He was exhausted. The morning practice finally sunk into his sore muscles and the stress caused his brain to crash, but he had a shift tonight and there was hardly room between now and then for a nap. Maybe once he got a good ol’ fashioned bologna on rye he’d have enough energy to finish the day. “Hate that fream,” he mumbled without malice.

“I’ll help ya. Don’t sweat it,” Oz promised. His fingers pressing into the meat of Ian’s trap muscle inclined him to lean contently into Oz’s body, but he wasn’t Nick, and with Nick it was a second nature Ian didn’t have to worry over, he had a space under Nick’s arm and he’d fit there for as long as he could recall. Ian felt like comfort between him an Oz was a given, but a struggle to take advantage of. He was different around him.

Oz faced him, holding him at arm’s length with both hands and keeping his attention with his large brown eyes, stern and serious. Ian shook his head and hung it solemnly between their bodies. “I’ll just pick some of the jackass second-stringers, it’s fine. I want to get it over with.”

“And you will if you take me. Clancy works fast,” he suggested. “Fuck, even cracked head Toonker will get the shit done lickity split, huh? He needs to exert energy somehow or his mom will put him on Ritalin again.”

Ian smiled. Oz lifted his head up by the bill of his ball cap and took it off his sweaty scalp to slide it over his tight, cropped hair. He looked good in a hat that had Ian’s number,  _43_ , stitched on the side.

Ian saw Nick watching them over Oz’s shoulder, gathering his things while his eyes flicked back and forth between the two men. He looked defeated when he turned to leave without so much as a wave goodbye. Ian wanted to yell after him, but he wedged his way between Tony and Carter’s large bodies and got lost in the swarm.

Oz ruffled the soft spikes of Ian’s damp hair and pulled him alongside him to wander across the diamond at their own easy pace. “Still haven’t told me what you did to get sentenced a hundred hours cs, doctor G.”

Ian shook his head and smiled. “Said it was destruction of private property didn’t I?”

“Still don’t feel like elaborating, huh? Figures.” He clicked his tongue. “Guy moves to a town in the middle of its prime and he has to play catch up, even nine months later. I’m startin’ to pick up context clues, pal.” He squinted and tapped his finger against his temple. “I’ll figure it out sooner or later.”

Ian laughed. “You could just ask someone.” He hoped he wouldn’t, but he knew somehow Oz was the type to wait for a true story from Ian himself.

“I’d rather play detective for a little while longer. I enjoy it.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

They smiled in mutual comforting silence until they had to stop to retrieve Ian’s bat and water. That’s when Oz saw Nick packing his glove into his bag with force and yanking his hair out of his face in a way that looked painful. “What’s with your guy?” Oz wondered.

“Huh?” Ian leaned his bat on his shoulder and swung his canister in his left hand.

Oz gestured with his chin. “He on edge lately or is it just me?”

Ian sighed. “He’s uh… “ He thought about Nick going home alone and blocking his door with his brother’s toy trunk since the lock was taken off his nob months ago. He thought of him sleeping for hours, fully dressed, still clad in muddy shoes. “He’s wound up. Just gotta leave him alone sometimes. All he needs is a nap and I’m sure he’ll be calling me up tonight filled with scotch wanting to serenade me.”

Oz didn’t look all the convinced. “You think he hates me?”

“Why do you say that?” Ian frowned, only half-sure he didn’t know what Oz was talking about.

Oz rolled his eyes.“The dirty looks… the exclusion… calls me  _Osborn_. Not to mention I hang around you.”

Ian shook his head modestly. “Ain’t got shit to do with me. He picks and chooses when to ice people, does the same kind of shit to me. But he’s still going through some tough times and I figured he’ll grow away from it soon enough.”

“I’m sure we’ll be best buddies someday,” Oz deadpanned. “Maybe he’s just not a friend of colored folk, huh?”

Ian bit his lip and chuckled. “Hey, maybe not. Think I would have known if he was like that by now, though.” He peered over at Oz through his lashes.

“Never know that shit until they come at your spleen with a blade, carve the dark meat up in time for the holidays.”

Ian bumped him with his shoulder. “Don’t say shit like that.”

Oz simpered. “Just advising, don’t leave Liam alone in a room with any caucasian pals that pass through. I’m serious. No matter how much you think you know them. We’re in the Cape. Don’t veer too far from the south ideologies and everyone here is a little off kilter anyway. You know that more than I do.”

“Yeah. I hear that,” he mumbled, sullen by the conversation. “But Nick’s not that kind of guy,” he swore with what little energy he had.

Oz shrugged. “I believe you. He’s a cornhole but he’s not that.”

Thunder rumbled overhead like a tiger’s growl from its unhinged jaw and a bolt of lightning split the amorphous clouds in two. “Here she comes,” Oz said, and everyone looking in the direction of the noise, well beyond the town in the bowels of the headland.

For a moment Ian thought that lightning was hitting a lot closer than he perceived and his back seized up at the thought of being struck.

_He saw rain dripping down white toes and weeds sticking out between fingers._

But it was the sound of a car engine, whining and chugging, shredding the asphalt as it burned down the long stretch of road by the east gate.

“Let’s get walkin’ man, before the downpour.” Oz tugged Ian’s sluggish body along as Ian tried to get a good look behind him.

What emerged from the trees was a familiar sleek, black Lincoln ripping its engine so hard Ian was always convinced it’d kill the car and end up smashing against a tree.

“Fuck. Somebody order the scum of the fucking earth, extra grease on that shit patty?” Ian heard Rogie chuckle.

“Shut up Toonker. If breathe a word to them I’ll knife you before they get the chance,” Tony warned. Rogie was almost the equivalent of Tony’s dog, Roscoe. Tony had to wrangle him in as often as Roscoe, anyway.

Nick didn’t bother looking up, and Ian was afraid of what that meant. He was nearly packed up and ready to flee when the Lincoln unceremoniously pulled up into the grass patch and stopped abruptly near the gate right in front of the remaining scatter of men on the team.

The car was sputtering loudly out the exhaust, vibrating in its place like a cat sat on its haunches desperate to leap forward and nab a mouse. Ian didn’t move a muscle. Nick swung his arms and watched with severe, precarious apathy as the driver popped his head out.

Pinkie Grocher and his boys were east side rats. Ian’s heart rate spiked when he saw their Lincoln slink through town, predatory and fast, whipping around corners and blasting music Ian wouldn’t think was all too bad if it wasn’t being played by the Grocher boy and his army of oily monkeys. They terrorized innocent women and kids and disrupted what little peace this town had. They were a fucking plague—racist nazi trash and serial rapists with their own body counts… and Ian had nothing to say about it, not to their faces anyway, if he could help it.

Looking into Pinkie’s protruding, icy, lazy eye an curling smirk that sliced his cheeks into menacing wounds was enough to get Ian to shut up. Nick was always braver out of the two of them, and this time was no different. “Boys.” Pinkie hung out the window, shouting over his hot death machine. His slick hair, so oiled it looked soaked hanging across his sharp cheekbones and touching the corners of his thin mouth, was pulled carefully back into place with the rest of his pompadour as he addressed Nick.

“Molest any recently?” Nick smiled tightly. His hands were wedged in his small pockets. The trees cast a weary shadow over his hard glare and flaring nostrils.

Pinkie’s grin was bright, sharp, delighted.

“Fat Stacks” Hargraves was filling up the majority of their car with his large body spilling over the passenger seat and swallowing the backrest. V-roll Schwanbeck was silent, hardly bothered by their pitstop, blowing cigarette smoke through his blond hair in the back seat.

“You hear this guy?” Pinkie turned to his friends. “Funny guy, funny, funny little man. Real belly buster, huh? Doesn’t he just make your fucking gut pop, Stacks?” Pinkie asked through clenched teeth and grabbed a handful of Stack’s lard in his palm. He shook it until it loosened from the fold of Stack’s waist and slapped his belly button, making him wheeze a flemmy laugh.

“Sure does, Pinkie!”

“How about you V-roll, that shit just pop your fucking gut, buddy?” Pinkie turned in his seat and slugged V-roll’s knee.

“That shit popped everything, man,” V-roll hummed over his cigarette and blew smoke cooly out the window toward Ian. When it cleared Ian saw that he was smiling at him, slightly psychotic but polite. There were inflamed zits where his dimples were, but it didn’t take away from his attractiveness. It was as if V-roll could  _smell_  it on Ian. Smell what Ian was hiding.

“Popped everything.” Pinkie shrugged and looked back at Nick. The corner of his mouth was quirking and his lazy eye straining to look directly at him along with his good one.

Ian observed Nick. His lower lip was caught between his teeth to keep from trembling out of anger. No matter how composed Nick seemed, just speaking to the rats made his blood boil. His kind, boyish features were hard granite and stone. His eyes flicked across Pinkie like Pinkie would pull a pistol out of whatever crevice he kept it stored in Stack’s rolls.

Pinkie only licked his lips, lingered over a front tooth. Maybe he was great with composure as well, but his weakness was Nick Childs. They’d always faintly seemed like two sides of the same coin to Ian, which made them lethal when they interacted.

Pinkie tried to keep his cool, keep his smile sharp. “C’mon, baby. You know you’re the only one for me. Don’t turn into a jealous broad” He rested a hand on the steering wheel and lolled his head to the side dreamily.

Nick’s eye barely twitched but it went by unnoticed by everyone but Ian, unlike the guise of his growing smile. “If I ever wanted my shit pushed I’d pick up a guy whose rail was bigger than his big toe, friend. You don’t think I’ve heard the fairies by Butchersman talking about what a mediocre lay you were across the board? Micropenis  _and_  a bad attitude to match.” He tensed his neck and plucked his collar away from his skin. “Besides, if God made me a queer I’d search for a nice guy with quality meat, not a cocktail side that’s been dipped inside his cousin.”

Rogie exploded with laughter somewhere behind them and a few guys chuckled under the sound, probably because if they didn’t laugh they’d end up crying. It was horrifying sound to hear in air that was already filled to the brim with tension. Oz sucked in his breath and Ian forgot to exhale his own.

There were widely known rumors about Pinkie, never confirmed or denied by the man himself, and Nick had a fucking field day with it.

Pinkie’s mouth hung open in what seemed to be impressed astonishment, his head tilting as though pleased, but in an instant he was hanging out the car by his waist. He leaned his elbows on the fence and hooked his roughed-up fingers in the space between buttons on Nick’s jersey. He yanked him forward hard against the chainlink and it wobbled under abrupt force. Ian hadn’t had time to process how quickly Pinkie had moved until he was suddenly there, fast, almost spooky fast, like a boogie man popping out from under a bed and snatching a kid’s feet.

Ian felt Oz grab the back of his jersey. He didn’t realize he’d taken a step forward until he was pulled back against a solid chest. “Don’t,” Oz ordered.

Nick’s lip found it’s way out of its entrapment and trembled. His jaw was squared, eyes unmoving now, dead on Pinkie’s twitching eye—but he was eerily calm. He didn’t struggle. He let his gut dig into the metal and made no move to avoid it.

“Listen you little shit-filled, rosy-assed, daddy’s boy.” He growled the words into Nick’s open mouth as Nick’s head hung back like it was coming loose off his neck. “I only came around your trash heap school to tell you that Milkovich wants you tomorrow at three around the back of the Mint shop. If you don’t get your perky cheeks there by then you’re not his fucking problem anymore.”

“He sendin’ you around to give orders like the errand bitch you’ve always wanted to be for him, ah?” Nick ribbed breathlessly over a lazy smile.

Pinkie pulled him flush against the metal rod at the top of the fence so that it crushed Nick’s ribs. He shoved him back with what leverage he had. Nick stumbled and fell into Ian before straightening out with a tiny chuckle.

Ian wanted to reach out and hold his shirt, make sure he wouldn’t try to provoke him anymore, but it would be useless. The guy's mouth was insufferable and yapped at its own will.

He hardly had time to wonder what Nick could possibly be meeting a Milkovich for—Mickey, presumably, since Mint Car Auto Repair shop was where he was employed and the only reason a Milkovich came into Arch Cape anymore. They had all moved a town over east after their sister Mandy graduated high school alongside Ian two years ago. Mickey was an elusive shadow in the wind. It was a little startling to see him when you caught sight of his black hair, leather jacket, and perpetually swollen eye sockets after months of only hearing stories and partially assuming he was dead. There had always been mixed tales about the man.

Mickey was around in town again, got a mechanic job, wanted to see Nick… Nick, who had become his  _problem_  in the time he’d been back—that was an immensely unnerving thought.

Pinkie put the car in drive and leaned back in his seat. “Three o’clock. Be there, kiddo.”

Nick spit on the ground and rubbed the sweat from his temple with his shirt.

“And by the way,” Pinkie simpered. He had remembered something vital, it seemed. Ian’s belly twisted. “We were out by the Pilcastle Lake earlier.”

Nick immediately tensed as though he’d been shocked. His smile faded.

V-roll was handing something to Pinkie that Ian couldn’t see. It sounded like a string of empty milk cartons. “We caught sight your little bro buried under the marsh, man. Decided we take him for a joyride and then drop him off,” Pinkie said. Stacks chortled, it garbled by the fat hanging off his chin. Pinkie tossed a skeleton made for hanging on porches indifferently outside the window at Nick like he was bored with his new toy.

It hit Nick’s chest and fell to the ground. It was limp and unceremonious, sad.

_Ian saw a deep bloody slit oozing just below a belly button. One in between ribs. The body had been decaying._

Nick lunged.

Ian was there in front of Nick with his arms wrapped around his waist, struggling to pull him away so he couldn’t reach into the window and twist Pinkie’s head off. Oz was right there beside him, fisting Nick’s jersey in one hand and holding his shoulder in the other.

“Hey! Nick. Stop.”

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Nick screamed. A cord waspulled from the pits of his belly and his roar was the starting of a chainsaw. Ian’s ear throbbed. _“I’ll fucking kill you fucking sons of whores you’re fucking dead!”_  He writhed in their arms and fought hard to elbow them out of his way, but it was no use. He wasn’t as strong as them and Ian knew he was exhausted more than he was furious, at the end of it all. Nick only wanted to sleep most the time. He’d been away from his bed for five hours. He was losing energy rapidly, Ian could feel it in the way he tremored.

He managed to reach over the gate and swat near the window. Pinkie only had to sit back a few inches to avoid being scathed. He laughed, thoroughly entertained, along with Stacks who baaed like a jovial sheep. Pinkie whistled and revved his engine. Ian couldn’t hear what he said next, something to do with free babysitting, how he hated it, too. Tough luck, man.

“See ya’ tomorrow, pally!” The Lincoln jolted forward and they peeled down the road, burning holes in their tires and leaving them in a thick, gray cloud.

“Fuck you and your faggot friends!” He shouted until his throat was pulverized and squirmed ceaselessly, shouldering Ian’s chest, digging into Oz’s ribs.

Ian ignored the sinking feeling inside of him and kept his urge to knee Nick in the crotch and leave him on the ground under control. “Stop. Stop, Nick. Enough. It’s over. It’s okay,” he mumbled in his ear.

They let him go when the car was far enough for Nick not to try and break into a sprint to catch up. Nick pushed Ian into the fence with what might he had left. “Fuck you! It’s not okay!” His voice was hoarse, breaking from all the yelling. His face was moist and red settled high on his cheeks, just below tears threatening to spill from his brown eyes.

That was Nick, little Nick. Ian’s heart ached for him, longed to make him feel better, craved to see him smile. He couldn’t help that, no matter how much Nick had changed, who he was and the reasons he cried, he loved him with every cell like he always had. That was ingrained in him.

The field and everyone that had stuck around was dead silent.

Ian slumped. “No. No no. Nick, hey. Let me—”

“Stay the  _fuck_  away from me,” Nick ordered, placing a stern hand on his chest and holding him in place.

Ian tried again despairingly. “Pinkie’s just a fucking—”

“Stay away,” he repeated, but it was quieter and absent. He stepped away and began to gather his things.

“—demonic fucker. Nick.  _Hey_!” He reached for his arm and Nick wrenched hi arms back. “I’m sorry… “ he pleaded.

“Don’t be. Go hang out with your boy toy at work and leave me the fuck alone, huh? You’re good at leaving me alone. Just don’t pretend anymore,” he choked and it sounded  _so_  shameful. He was well aware of how many people were overhearing him. He’d rather die than let them in on the most secretive feelings in the center of his heart.

He had not cried once over his little brother around anyone but Ian, not even his parents, especially not, and he did a good job of keeping his tears from falling now. Sometimes Ian didn’t realize how close Nick was to shattering until something went slightly wrong in his life, something he couldn’t control the outcome of. He didn’t realize how close he was to completely shutting down until the slightest memory of his brother rolled through in an ugly, cold wind, seizing him with its icy fingers.

Daniel Joseph “DJ” Childs’ bedroom door was sealed shut. Nick never looked at the closed door when he passed it. He never looked left or right in the halls that held pictures of his smile with missing teeth, small hands holding a frog, him hanging off his brother’s neck as a toddler after they swam at the waterhole.

As far as Ian knew, Nick never even thought about him if he could help it. Ian knew when he  _did_  let himself think because those days Nick couldn’t move or speak, he only moaned in his pillow as he would after puking—sick, hurt, belly sounds, and squeezed his sheets hard. Tears would only come sometimes. Sometimes it was just the sounds,  _awful_  sounds. Ian sat next to him and wrote about anything that came to mind, mostly his surroundings. He had a dozen pages filled with the same scenario, written in a dozen different ways. Nick in bed, dark room, hard floor, the air dank.

“Don’t pretend about us anymore,” Nick mumbled. His ears were the same shade of red as the buttons on his shirt, eyes heavy, his whole body rocked like he’d tumble from the weight of his bag. “Stay away. Stay away… “

Ian stayed. He watched Nick leave the way the rat greaser’s had come, in the wealthier part of town down south. It was a twenty-minute walk. Ian was sure he’d collapse halfway down the path and be fine to die there.

Ian stood there helplessly with his chest feeling concave, filled with black. He looked at the small skeleton left ragged on the ground, not quite in the same position they’d found DJ, but just as carelessly spread, lifeless—a toy.

Ian picked it up and threw it as hard as he could into the thicket of the trees across the street where it vanished and no one ever saw it again after.

Boy toy.

Those words echoed in his mind and the first image that came were milky dead eyes staring into nothingness, and the second was Oz, who Nick had been referring to in the first place.

Ian turned at the sound of his voice. “Show’s over with, guys. Go find something to blow up or kiss your mom’s at home.” He waved his hand. The eight or nine men that lingered mumbled in astonishment or whistled contently at the fine display they got to view today on their way out. Rogie whistled the loudest, some military march song Ian recognized from his brief stint with ROTC in high school.

That left him and Oz, moving like honey glaze, picking up their things, listening to rumbles of thunder. “He absolutely hates me. No question anymore.” Oz said.

Ian surprised himself by laughing and then he held his mouth as if he said a swear word in front of Father Barringer at Main Street Catholic.

Just as quickly, the smile faded. He swallowed hard.“Hates me, too. I think he has for a while now.”

Oz shook his head and surveyed the sky before deciding to leave his radio transistor in his bag but left the flap open. “I may not know him like you, but he don’t mean that. He just needs time, some sleep, food in his belly, and you’ll be thick as thieves on Monday.”

Ian snorted, partially because it was true, Nick’s moods gave him whiplash, but partially because it was rich to say shit about Nick when Ian was the way he was. Nick was only grieving. Ian would be like that forever. “Yeah.”

“Mean it.” Oz wrapped an arm around Ian and pulled him along, out the gate, up north straying along the green sugar maples and beech trees.

“Those fucking pricks and their fucking Lincolns, crater face greasoids.” Ian clenched his fists and punched his thigh. “They think it’s fucking funny, Oz. You’d hope someone would have some fucking compassion but shit, everyone just wants to jump down each other throats for the gossip of it all or harass the shit out of them until they off themselves. Nick can’t fucking heal here.” He kicked a stray rock into the road. He felt a childish ranting like this with his temple pounding and body tightly strung, but he couldn’t take how he felt about living somewhere small and interpersonal. He was reminded every time he overheard people talk about Nick’s family. Still, a year later, and no one knew how to discuss tragedy.

“Ain’t your brother a greasoid?” Oz reminded him with a chuckle that seemed so out of place he had to take a second to clear his head.

“Huh? Sure,” he sighed and thought of Lip’s back sliced like tender prime rib the night he was brought into the west side gang officially, three years prior. He was forced to sit still while every member sliced him up with the pocket knives. He had homemade stitches done by a buddy and Ian watched in wild fascination and partial horror that his brother might bleed out. “Westside are fucking useful to us though, okay? They give back to our fucking community. The majority of the money they make is ours,” Ian explained. He didn’t quite care for either of the gangs or the trickle of socs from the near towns, but it was reflexive to defend Lip and his long hours dedicated to what he was doing for their family, often times paying the total sum of their mortgage when he could swing it.

“Don’t I know it,” Oz murmured. He didn’t care for either side of grease either. Oz cared about ball, ball and music, that’s why Ian hung around him religiously. Being with Oz was like laying in alcoves and counting dust motes to the sound of Little Richard in nothing but your skivvies, a shadowed smooth comfort, the best medicine. “Forget about it all.”

Ian wouldn’t until he heard from Nick again. A big part of him knew he would, but there was the small sliver of fear that Nick meant what he said. They were done. He couldn’t help that despite how much he’d grown to resent his best friend there was nothing else quite like the worry that he and Nick would be no more. “Sure.”

Oz took one look at him and brought him in closer by the back of his head. They touched foreheads and Ian thought of pressing his nose into his soft, brown cheek but fought the urge. “I promise it’ll end up alright,” Oz whispered wisely. “You hear me?”

“Uh huh.” Ian closed his eyes, held his breath so he didn't exhale over his lips. Oz wasn’t Nick. Ian was afraid to touch him, but when Oz took the initiative it always stunned him completely.

Oz scratched his scalp and cupped his neck, thumbing gently over his ear. “I love you, man. I’m sorry about everything.” He spoke so sincerely Ian felt his eyes well up for the first time in a while before he turned away, just far enough that he could breathe, but he couldn’t actually breathe in the deepest sense, he had been holding it around Oz since they met.

If he said the wrong thing or made the wrong move it would expose him. He’d know Ian wasn’t like everyone else, his life was held by strings. He dreamt of strong warm brown hands instead of the way Carrie Yatesal’s felt months ago sliding over his waist. It was all wind talk, smoke and mirrors. It was Osborn, charming and good, safe. They moved like honey glaze together.

“I love you.” That was as true a statement as any true statement. “I’m okay.” Less true.

Oz patted his cheek once and gave a tentative smile, his little grins were all shiny and mischievous, plump lip curling over white teeth. Ian wanted to lick it to see if it was as sweet as it looked. “Whatch’you wanna listen to, big man.”

Ian fell away from him and watched him dig his radio from his bag. He was a little dizzy but in a good way. “Jesus Oz, you always crank the same tunes, anyway. What do you ask my opinion for?” Ian was back in his groove, at least for the afternoon.

Oz’s smile touched all corners of the earth. He was unabashedly and almost cruelly gorgeous, a sight to behold in a gray landscape like he was cut from somewhere better and glued here. Beauty came to black men more easily than white, Ian noticed, and briefly wondered if he marveled because black folk were a rarity in the Cape, and he knew that would always have something to do with it, but the magic that came with the newness never faded, and he still hadn’t gotten used to him. Oz Baxter shone brighter than anyone Ian had met.

Ian wiped his palms on his shorts and stepped ahead of him, walking backward, rhythm in his hips when “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On” by Jerry Lee Lewis played fuzzy and loud, hardly intelligible out of Oz’s small lime green transistor sitting atop his glove.

Lightning zapped over the town and the sky began to trickle small cold drops against them and the pavement. It felt wonderful on Ian’s skin.

“Well, I said come on over baby, we got chicken in the barn-UH!” Ian belted at the sky, his voice splitting near the end to the sound of Lewis singing upbeat over the big band. Ian felt himself slink along to the beat, lolling his head from side to side. Oz beamed and fell in step with him, matching his rhythmic walk that was almost like line dancing but with more jazz.

“Come on over baby, really got the bull by the horn!” They sang in unison, gliding with each other over the dark spotted asphalt.

Oz had far more rhythm than him, but Ian found that he could do a decent job of keeping up. They took three steps to Oz’s right and Ian’s left on every other beat during the verses and moved their shoulders in time with their feet, heads bobbing, hips rocking.

Ian turned to face front and skipped diagonally with one foot leading and then the other, then stopped in his tracks and bent his knees to sway his hips in such a way that looked absolutely ridiculous. Oz crashed into his back and clutched his shirt to have a momentary laughing fit. “Ohhh the white boy has  _moves_  does he?” He jeered.

Ian looked at him with a feigned offense. “I’ve always had the moves. Haven’t you’ve been paying attention to these hips as long as you’ve known ‘em?” He turned around and moved with him, face to face with practiced ease. Oz was better, he moved like the ground was a stage and his shoes were sliding over slick tile, making him appear to be floating as his thumbs hooked in his shorts and he used his pelvis to draw closer to Ian and move back out of his reach before Ian lost any inhibitions.

Finally, Oz moved beside Ian so they danced backward together down a small hill that was crest just before shops and working-class residential areas sat, him and Oz’s part of town. They worked in measured and goofy movements that still looked impressive when the beat made their bodies in sync and their hips jived unapologetically when the music faded off into ethera of sky-high radio signals. A big mouth, smooth-talking radio announcer broke through the majesty of the fading song with a “Ruh-Ruh-Ruh Rick Donahue on the Q. Q is good for You! We play what we like and nothin’ else!”  _Boing!_

The Q was a radio station from the bigger city that they managed to grapple the signal off. Oz tuned into The Q and not much else, much like every other youngin in town whose only options were to buy records or blast Rick Donahue. Radio specials that weren’t about the union trade or people’s encounters with Christ Almighty were out of bounds. If you wanted to hear raunchy freak-out moments the night of stranger’s sock hops or scary retellings of classic horror you had to travel north.

Ian spun Oz around smoothly so they both faced forward and they waltzed down Apple Ave. into the busiest part of town, moving like a beat was still accompanying them as opposed to Green Stamp adverts. Glazed honey, that’s what he and Oz were.

Ian tried not to let his good mood wash away with the rain like his pomade that tamed his hair straight or the dirt on his arms from the ball field, dripping off his scalp and fingers and getting whisked away down the curvature of the street, arms clean and hair curling.

He’d be fine if he ignored the spot in the brush just before entering this section of the Cape where he, Nick, and DJ used to beg passersby for money when it rained and hid their shoes between trees so they looked especially desperate. Those days ended in soft serve from Sweet Eats and DJ sitting soaked on Ian’s lap so he could reach the counter while Nick was off selected a song on the juke. Nick could have always stolen his parent’s cash for ice cream, but it was much more fun to play homeless children for whatever reason, more satisfying.

That had been years ago. It seemed like another lifetime, for DJ it was.

He’d call Nick on Saturday and force him to hang with him like he’d promised, even if he hadn’t forgiven him by then. If he didn’t make new memories in old places with Nick anymore he might drop dead from heartbreak.

Oz grabbed Ian’s shoulder and leaped onto his back, his weight pulling Ian toward the ground before he could catch himself, but he managed to stabilize them both and let out the most gut-deep laughter he had ever heard come out of his own mouth. “Get a fuckin’ move on. Onward now. Need me your sister’s rye bread, Mr. G.” Oz commanded.

Ian groaned and smiled at Oz’s wet face resting on his shoulder and the press of Ian’s cloth ballcap that Oz was still wearing smushed into his face, soggy and dripping. “Don’t fucking phrase shit like that.” He yelled over the rain.

“Her bologna?”

“Fuck right off!” He demanded.

“Well can I at least have one damn ingredient, I’m starving!” He laughed boisterously against Ian’s shirt.

Ian wrapped his hands under Oz’s strong thighs and boosted him up higher on his back before he trudged for the long haul down winding roads. Admittedly, he’d carry him as far as he wanted Ian to go. Ian would have done anything and everything for Oz, that was the truest fact about Ian Gallagher, at the time, anyway, as of May 1957. He didn’t have the slightest clue how much he’d change in the next few months.

They’d go on to sing about bologna sandwiches over the lyrics of “Short Fat Fannie” except “short fat Fannie” had been replaced with their equally as charming rendition “thick bologna.”

Ian hadn’t noticed over their raging good time hiccuping and shouting through Main Street that a little boy with gray skin and silvery hair was sat on a shop stoop, glaring at Ian with familiar, dead, milky eyes, before he immediately melted down the steps like he’d only been water.

It was probably for the best Ian hadn’t seen, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gonna link songs that i mention in chapters because they're essential to listen to.  
> [Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFxRTLmtsbE)  
> [Short Fat Fannie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qs4eIExZols)
> 
> comment and talk to me on [tumblr](http://witchmickey.tumblr.com) :)


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